


Do You Believe in Life After Love?

by MermaidMayonnaise



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Backfired Spells, Canon Divergence, Ice, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Canon, References to Be More Chill, There Is Only One Bed, i keep wanting to make references that don't belong, no more hints for you!, that's a trope. I can't believe it's a trope, writing for another fandom really messes me up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMayonnaise/pseuds/MermaidMayonnaise
Summary: "Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.Why is Snow on the sofa? Well, that’s a bit of an embarrassing story."----------The boys are up to their shenanigans. (Also, puns. If nothing else, read it for the puns.)





	Do You Believe in Life After Love?

**Author's Note:**

> I read "Carry On" just about a week ago and devoured it in two days instead of doing homework. I've followed Rowell's tumblr for a while and wanted to be included in the excitement when "Wayward Son" comes out in September, but to be fair I've also read a few others of her stuff and _also_ loved them. (I've also cried a little because of her. She's one of the only authors that has made me cry. Eternal respect.)  
> Anyway, a story was definitely in the making, although I had no idea where this would go when I started it. I took the first line from "Wayward Son" and went from there, even though the final product is definitely before then. Oh, well. C'est la vie.

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

He’s curled up into a small ball and I see his shoulders shake as he shivers. The sofa curls up around Snow as though it’s hiding him from view, and he has his face buried in its cushions.

We’re in our dorm room at Watford. The windows are open, and the cool night air ruffles the curtains, which rustle with the smoothness of silk. It’s spring, and everything smells sweetly of flowers and mint.

I’m in my bed reading a book. My head rests against the headboard and my bare feet, almost touching the far side of the mattress, are crossed, one over the other. I’m not cold, but I’ve never never had that problem.

Snow sighs uncomfortably in his sleep and turns over. His feet are bare as well, and I see him unconsciously try to tuck them underneath him.

The couch is hideous, which is fortunate because it’s on the other side of the room. It’s covered in some sort of flowery design that leaves neon imprints behind my eyes whenever I blink.

Why is Snow on the couch? Well, that’s a bit of an embarrassing story. (Not for me, for Snow.)

 

Yesterday, he’d been trying to practice one of his ice spells that we’d been assigned for homework, to little avail. Personally, I’m wasn’t too surprised by his lack of progress; but what Snow lacks in finesse he makes up with the sheer strength of his magic.

He was sitting on his bed, eyes screwed up, knuckles white as he clenched his hand tightly around his wand. The interesting twist of the assigned spell was that we had to find our own combination of words that somehow produced ice.

He’d been trying for a while, using phrases like,  **“Cool as a cucumber”** and  **“cold as ice”** to no visible effect. I, as usual, was on my bed reading. Snow’s  **“Netflix and Chill”** had produced the flowered couch and a condom, and I almost jumped out of the window when they appeared. Snow, who clearly hadn’t noticed the second item, simply looked confused, and I didn’t care to clarify.

“What could I be doing wrong?” he muttered to himself.  **“Be more chill.”** That produced some sort of gray oblong pill that dropped onto his bed, and without hesitation Snow threw it in the trash can. “Nope. Not today.”

“Having a little trouble?” I said snarkily, flipping a page.

Snow bared his teeth. “No.”

To be fair, conjuring objects left and right was fairly impressive, but I wouldn’t let  _ him  _ know that.

“You might want to introduce yourself to the bed,” I said with mock sweetness. “It might take pity on you.”

“That’s not a spell,” he snarled, then complied with the suggestion just to taunt me.  **“My name is Simon Snow.”**

The bed instantly encased itself in ice. The only exception was Snow himself, who sat in the very center in a cylinder of air, looking rightfully stunned. I’m sure my expression matched his, but not warped and distorted through the thick layer of ice. He looked like an absurd goldfish.

“Oops,” he said, muffled enough that I squinted to read his lips. The room immediately dropped below twenty degrees, and even though it didn’t bother me, I felt the decrease in temperature.

The ice was a marvel, really. It was thick and unblemished, a square of clear cut glass that was above seven feet high. It caught the light from the setting sun and sent it wavering and shooting out of it in a multitude of different directions, and the room was a portrait of swirling warm colors.

“It’s like a kaleidoscope of colors,” I said softly, unconsciously reaching out and touching the wall with my fingertips. The light, disturbed, wavered across my knuckles like some purple ocean. The entire room seemed as though it was underwater. If Snow somehow conjured fish made of pure light that swam around in the air, they wouldn’t have been entirely out of place.

Almost instantly, Snow had his sword in his hand, carving thick chunks out of the ice to make handholds, and climbed to the top. I watched as he put his hand up and found that the structure was enclosed. He turned his sword over and smashed upwards with the pommel, but the ice ceiling wouldn’t give.

He gave up and jumped back down onto his mattress. It must have creaked when he landed, but the ice was so thick that I didn’t hear it.

That was a little problem. “Do you want some help?” I asked him at a greater volume so he could hear me, smiling sweetly.

Snow glared at me. At least, I assumed it was a glare since his face was slightly distorted. “No.”

“Have it your way.” I went back to reading my book.

I could hear him casting fire spells, trying in vain to melt his way out. They got more and more ridiculous as he ran out of ideas.

**“Some like it hot!”** sent sparks flying through the enclosure.

**“Damn, Daniel!”** did absolutely nothing, which was a shame.

**“Ay caramba, muy caliente!”** created burritos that dropped around him. Snow looked above him in incredulity and yelped when one fell on his face. The burrito drizzle stopped, and his shoulders slumped. He sat back down, and out lack of anything better to do, picked the burrito off of his head and bit into it.

He immediately spit it out, yelling, “Spicy! I hate spicy food!”

I almost told him to lick the wall. Snow was so stupid that he would have done it. 

“What did you think would happen?” I turned the page idly. I suddenly had a craving for Mexican food. Curse him.

Snow dropped his head back with a thunk. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. After a few minutes, he said, “I give up. You win.”

I sat up, looked at the Snow for the first time, and held a hand up to my ear. “I’m sorry, you  _ what?” _

He mumbled something like, “Please help.”

“I can’t hear you!” I sang, delighted.

Snow shot up to his feet, desperate, and pounded on the ice. A small chunk forced itself free, and I could now hear him clearly.  _ “Please!” _

“I don’t know…” I swung my feet off the bed, feeling my toes touch the carpet, and spread my arms leisurely. “I think I’ll get myself some Mexican from the main hall. Would you like some?” I looked right at him and grinned. “Oh, wait.”

He threw his hands up. “How can you possibly be this annoying?”

“Hey, hey, Snow, if you’re angry, you might want to let off some  _ steam!”  _

“Stop!”

“Are you feeling a little  _ ice- _ olated?”

“No!”

“Do you want me to stop giving you the cold shoulder!”

“Agh!”

“What’s wrong, Snow? Don’t like my puns!”

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg!” Snow smacked his hand on his mouth, looking horrified. I laughed so hard that I fell onto the bed. “You infected me!”

“Will you admit that you…  _ slipped up?” _

Snow looked like he was really trying not to laugh. “Okay! Okay! Let me out!”

I wiped a stray tear from my eye and waved my wand.  **“Break the glass ceiling.”**

The ice cube crumbled as though it was composed of a million tiny circles of ice. They dropped on top of Snow and rolled across the floor. There were small piles of them everywhere and the room suddenly became a winter wonderland.

He ran a hand through his hair and more of them tumbled out, falling across his shoulders and into his lap. After holding out his hand to catch a few of them, he tipped them into his mouth, chewed, and licked his lips.

“They taste like mint,” Snow said, and fainted.

I ran to him and pressed my fingers to his neck, checking for a heartbeat and finding one. The skin was cold as… well, ice. Snow’s fingertips were blue.

“Oh, bollocks,” I said, casting as many healing and warmth charms as magickally possible in the space of ten seconds.

He moved infinitesimally under my fingers, and a bit of color returned to his face. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I didn’t attempt to muffle it.

“Now, where to put you?” I tapped my chin, looking around the room. Snow’s bed was obviously out of commission, covered in ice and smelling of an herb garden. I was going to sleep in my own bed, so that option was also eliminated.

For a moment, I imagined how I would react if I woke up in the morning and my bed smelled of Simon Snow. But only for a moment.

I scanned the room, my eyes alighting upon dreadful floral patterning. I looked at the horrible couch, then back at Snow, and sighed.

(Needlessly to say, I took the condom off of the couch and hid it in my bedside drawer. Who knew what properties a magickally conjured contraceptive would have?)

 

And that’s why Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

It’s in the middle of the night now, and the ice dusting the room hasn’t melted. The moonlight glints off of the small piles that are scattered haphazardly around the floor and on the furniture.

Snow’s been shivering for a while, even though I’d thrown him a dry blanket (from my own bed, no less, his own still felt like sticking your hand in a freezer) over him an hour before.

He hasn’t responded or even moved his hands to wrap the blanket around him. The cloth just covers his shoulders and head pathetically. 

“You big baby,” I say, getting up from my own bed and tucking him in. “Don’t think for a  _ second  _ that I’m getting you a space heater.”

He responds to the word ‘heat’ by shuddering and tucking his palms between his thighs. I stare at him for a minute, then go back to my bed and tried to go to sleep.

For the past  _ hour,  _ Snow has been whimpering. They’re some of the saddest sounds I’ve ever heard.

“Fine!” I say, throwing my hands up and padding over to him. “You can sleep in my bed. Just a warning, I don’t have any body heat, so it’ll be like sleeping with a corpse!”

Snow grumbles a little sleepily, trying to get up and failing. He falls back on the couch and lays there, then reaches a hand out to me in an obvious pleading gesture.

Grousing, I grasp his forearm and pull him to a standing position. He stumbles and I catch him, slinging his arm over my shoulder. We embark on a bizarre three-legged race to my bed and I try to carry our combined weights. 

Snow is much stockier than I am, even though he’s three inches shorter. Not for the first time, I envy his musculature.

After a million years of him stepping on both of my feet, tripping on the blanket that  _ I  _ brought him, and falling twice, we reach the bed. With his last remaining strength, Snow independently takes his last step to the head and falls forward face-first. The bounce flings him back up, and he uses it to roll over so he’s appropriately positioned instead off having his ass sticking up in the air.

He then takes the opportunity to shove his face into the nearest soft object, which happens to be my pillow, and almost immediately is halfway to dozing off.

I stare at him incredulously, still standing beside him. “You bastard. You stole both of my pillows.”

“‘S warm,” he slurs. “Smells like you.”

My heart jumps a little, and I ignore it. I notice that his shirt is cold and wet, and I’ll be damned if I let  _ that  _ touch my expensive sheets. I sit down next to Snow and heft him up to a sitting position.

“Take your shirt off,” I say. “It’s cold, and the dampness is just making it worse.”

Snow wearily complies, taking the hem in both hands and pulling it up and over his back. The saturated shirt sticks to him, so I gingerly help him peel it off his shoulders. My hands touch his warm back (how is he warm already, he was freezing three minutes ago), and I fight back a visible urge to run my fingers over the muscular expanse of skin.

This isn’t fair. This level of attraction shouldn’t be possible towards that level of idiot.

With an effort that honestly is much too large for the situation, we get the shirt over his head. His hair is damp, but his bronze curls are free of knots and soft, and they bounce slightly as Snow shakes his head to get them off of his forehead.

I simply drop the shirt on the space between the two beds on the floor and hear the slight  _ thump  _ it makes as it hits the ground. I don’t even care about the damp spot that it’ll leave on the carpet tomorrow morning. Snow can clean up that mess on his own.

Snow lies down and buries his face in my pillow again. I see his breath even out again, becoming deep and even, and I walk around to the other side of the bed.

I sit down on the edge beside him, lean over to his side and wrestle back one of the pillows clenched in his grip, and lie down. I cover both of us with my blanket. Snow tugs it slightly to him as he adjusts, and I let the act slide. My back is to him, but I can feel the warmth of his body.

It’s quiet, and then I hear a sleepy voice whisper, “Baz?”

I steadfastly keep my back turned towards him. “Yeah?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The night is dark, and the silence is velvet. Stars twinkle from above and the ice that surrounds us reflects the soft glow of the moon.

“Go to sleep, Simon,” I say.

“You called me Simon,” he says, surprised.

“No, I didn’t.”

The wind gently blows through the windows, and when Simon clings to me in the middle night from behind and buries his face in my shoulder, I let him.

That’s a problem for the morning. But for now, just for now, I believe in life after love.

The ice watches over us, and we sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is mermaidmayonnaise.  
> Comments make my day and kudos make the world go round.


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